Empire of Dirt
by DC41781
Summary: There are men and there are monsters. The trouble is, Norman Bates doesn't know which he is. Or if he's both. Slight AU. Post-series.


He didn't know who he was anymore. There was a halfway decent chance that he never really had known, even when he'd convinced himself he did. The time for convincing was long past; he knew that, he embraced it. That part was easy. Saying 'I'm bad' out loud. Now, he said it to empty rooms, but it still had the same effect: that hopeless echo rattling off the walls of the void inside him and vaporizing any sense of the person he could have – _should have_ – been.

Her scent hung on the air, as if it were oozing out of the house's floorboards. It drove him crazy that he could feel her on him, trying to rip into his skin and possess him. The blackouts came more frequently than ever and he knew that whatever went on in those long spaces of time were things he didn't have the heart to ponder. He didn't need any more blood on his hands.

He trudged down to the motel every few hours. It wasn't an optimistic ritual so much as a mechanical response. This place was his responsibility. It always would be. Even with the bypass in, he couldn't let the business just fade into the background of the landscape, never to be spoke of or seen again by anyone other than him. That would be a tragedy…one Mother wouldn't stand for. Norman stiffened at the thought of that word, his hands clasping at the edges of his desk, his eyes wide, his heart pounding at his temples.

After a minute that could have been an hour, he dropped his head and breathed out. He wasn't calm, but he was still here and that was a victory in and of itself. She hadn't left, though. She was clawing the back of his eyelids, desperate to force herself in. "Go away." He commanded through gritted teeth. "You aren't _real._ "

"I'm a part of you, Norman. As long as you're real, I am." Her voice bounced off every nerve ending and pain sensor and blood cell in his body.

How could he even be sure that he was real? Sure, he bled and he cried and he slept, but that could be the illusion. _He_ could be the illusion. His stomach heaved against the accusation, making him close his eyes and grind his teeth. "Mother." He ground out. "Why won't you give up?"

The night grew heavy around him, closing in on the motel and the neon blue words that buzzed into the silence. She wouldn't answer. He was glad. For once, he'd beaten her. Another small victory in what was an ever growing list.

* * *

He'd kept mementos. Even as a kid who knew no better he'd stored things away. Simple things, pretty things, meaningless things. The things he hung onto now were not meaningless. Emma's O2 tank, one of Dylan's motorcycle helmets, Mother's sea foam green Mercedes. He never touched the rooms, either. Both Norma and Dylan's were as pristine as museum exhibits, preserved like the birds that lined the living room walls. Norman never went into either one. It hurt too much.

At least, he wanted it to hurt. It seemed that the passing of time had made him numb to it. Maybe his humanity was slipping away from him, as easily as grains of sand between his fingers. Perhaps he could no longer feel anything, leaving nothing more than a husk of skin and bones and organs working together to keep a useless body alive.

Frustrated, he slammed the butt of his hand into the kitchen table. It rattled on its weak legs. "Son of a bitch." He breathed, looking up and seeing nothing except the emptiness.

Minutes passed and the entire universe went eerily quiet, leaving behind the faintest ringing in his ears. She materialized in front of him, the easiest of smiles on her face. "You shouldn't talk that way about your mother, Norman."

He scoffed. "Sorry."

Dylan had left behind whiskey. Norma had left vodka. Norman didn't particularly like the taste of either, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Not when his sanity was hanging off the edge of a cliff. He drank straight from the bottle, refusing to look at her, even while she cast an air of disappointment. "What are you doing, Norman?"

"Wallowing." He replied. "That's what lonely crazy people do."

"You're not alone."

"No, I'm not and it's because I'm crazy."

She painted on that smile again. He hated that fucking smile. "Norman." She said gently. "You're not crazy."

"If I'm not crazy, then how the hell are you here? You're dead! You're all dead!" He didn't realize he'd shattered the bottle on the table until he glanced down and saw the blood dripping off the tips of his fingers. Why wasn't there any pain?

"I'm not dead, Norman. I told you already. We're the same person."

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. There's no me without you. Thanks for reminding me." It astounded him that he came off so aloof about their connection. That was new. He turned around and put his hands under the faucet, washing away the evidence of his injury. It was strange to be cleaning up his own blood. He'd get the glass later. "I don't need you anymore." He said, still facing the sink.

"If that were true, I wouldn't be here." She was so smug. He hated that, too. Every little thing about his mother infuriated him. When had that happened? Had he ever actually loved her? He didn't know anymore. Confusion swirled around in his already foggy brain, causing his vision to blur and his hands to pause under the running water. She went on, of course. "I'm not going anywhere, Norman."

He flinched. "I can't accept that. I don't accept that."

No answer came.

* * *

Okay, so Emma wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway. He visited the hospital once a week in the cleanest clothes he could find, a bouquet of flowers in his grip. Mr. Decody was there every time, which made Norman both nervous and elated. The act had to be good, but at least he wasn't pretending as much as he usually did when he went into town.

He paused in the doorway, watching Mr. Decody stare down at a comatose Emma. No changes. Of course not. She'd rejected the lungs. A machine was keeping her alive. This was the real tragedy. This pathetic excuse for caring and good parenting. Norman wanted to scream about how selfish this was, but his body was too caught up in the unfairness of Emma's current condition. At least he hadn't put her here. At least there weren't four murders on his conscience. He inched further into the room and finally, Mr. Decody noticed him. "Norman."

He placed the flowers on the side table and fell into a chair across from Mr. Decody. "Will. How is she?" Stupid question.

"The same."

Norman nodded in a way he hoped came off as sympathetic. The silence was thick for the next few minutes. Norman couldn't stand it. They had nothing to talk about except the deaths of the people they loved. And that was too hard to voice. His skin itched and his foot shook. He needed to get the hell out of here. He couldn't keep looking at Emma and then back at the sullen expression Will had been wearing for three months.

"Your brother was the one who got her the lungs, you know."

The sound of the man's voice startled Norman. "Yeah, I know." Dylan Massett, the girlfriend stealing hero of White Pine Bay.

"He was a good guy, your brother."

Norman threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to reign in the onslaught of emotional debris inside him. "I know that, too."

"I'm sorry, Norman. About your family."

He stood up, then, ready to run for his life. "So am I."

* * *

Later, he waited outside the hospital in his mother's car, his eyes trained on the exit. He wanted all of this to be over. He needed it to be. This wreckage around him was too much to handle. He couldn't keep coming into town and pretending to be something he wasn't. Good and decent. The guy who brought flowers and comfort and his own heartache. He needed to be alone. Problem was, that couldn't happen till…

Will emerged, his hands in his pockets, the tear tracks obvious on his cheeks even from this distance. Norman waited for him to get in his car and drive away before he stepped out of his mother's Mercedes and took the path up to the hospital doors. Most hospitals had security and guest check in, but because this was White Pine Bay, none of that existed. He just strode right past the desk, feeling his pulse pick up and his insides twist. He was about to do what he swore he wouldn't. He wondered how it would weigh on him. There was a chance it could be…freeing. He hoped so. He couldn't live with more guilt.

Emma's machine beeped steady. Norman walked over to that side of the bed, one hand sliding to cover one of Emma's out of habit more than anything else. This girl had dated him, dumped him and then proceeded to date his brother. Though, that hadn't lasted longer than six months thanks to the rejected organs. Norman almost allowed himself to feel superior about it, but that would be wrong. Especially now, given what he was about to do. "I want you to know that I don't blame you." He said. "I know I'm a mess. I've always been a mess. Just like Mother." He dropped his head beside Emma's so he could whisper into her ear. "I'm sorry. For everything. For Norma. For Dylan. For the Sheriff. I'm so sorry. If I could take it back…"

"You wouldn't." Mother was being smug again, though she was right this time.

"Not now, Mother." He scolded, lifting himself into a standing position once again. "This is important."

"Stop pretending that you give a shit and just pull the damn plug on the whore."

"Mother."

"This girl screwed your brother in your motel. More than a few times."

"I know that."

"Let her go already."

He wrapped his fingers around the plug and stayed still, waiting for Mother to take him over and do it for him. She was refusing. It was different.

"Do it, Norman."

He did.


End file.
